


The train to nowhere

by gustin_puckerman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gustin_puckerman/pseuds/gustin_puckerman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let's discuss of your relationship with Steve Rogers."</p><p>What happens when you're stripped from everything you know, questioned and faced with your demons and separated by a single glass from the one person that's keeping you afloat? She guesses, at this point, she just keeps on going. Or, a lot of people are holding Maria in a cell for "mental health problems" and Steve isn't allowed to see her at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 _Steve_ ,

 

It starts the same. They give her a pen and paper, everyday every time they find the old ones scatter about at the corner of the bed, ripped apart and torn to pieces -- on some of those tiny papers, there are scratches of her writings. Secrets, desires, fears -- what she loves, what she hates -- everything might be in there. But it's either too poorly written to trace back, or the papers are too damaged to puzzle it back together. But one day -- and she decides -- _today_ , would be the day.

She wants to say so much, always do, the moment she's strewn and ripped apart from his giant hold (he would've laughed, been amused; never really liked to be called _giants_ , of all things, not when he'd always had that fragile little young pre-serum Steve he'd always worried about replacing all of his strong strength one fine morning) and she wants to say how _suck_ it is, because it does, to be stuck in here, confined by these walls, knowing, learning, observing and confirming that he's close by but she can't do anything but only imagine he's there.

She wants him to know what they've done to her -- there's not much, but oh _Steve_ , god how I _hate_ it here -- about how they make her face her demons more than her mind could handle, how she'd have to tell herself to breathe for an hour just so she wouldn't fall apart and crumble like they would've dreamt her to. And, remember that time when I told you how scared I was? I was six, Steve, and my dad -- that's the first time he's ever gotten that mad -- he went drinking the night before, and when he returned home, he was calling for me. He was calling, and he was _angry_. I was so terrified, I have to lock myself in the closet room for three days. I fainted, Steve. I was six, scared to death because my father -- my dad -- the one person, the only family I've got left, wanted to hurt me for the one thing I couldn't control. I used to think it was my fault. I was scared, because was it my fault? At six, I believed it was.

How sad was I, Steve?

(If he was really here, she'd called him "Rogers" and he would've taken her hand, traced his finger along her skin like she was some kind of a newfound miracle and kept her close -- so close, for a moment she thought she couldn't breathe -- and they would've stayed like that, and she would've allowed it, and it would've been the best thing ever.)

But other than her suffering, she wants to share and notes about other things too. About maybe, she'd finally consider that days off. (She'd imagined he would've grinned at her, all happy and kind, took her in and insisted he hugged her for at least, _three_ minutes. That giant.) She'd even consider writing about Italy, or Borneo, or somewhere, Steve, somewhere far away where we can escape the world and it'll be just you and me, and you have to forgive me for not being completely whole when you're so, so perfect to me, and I hope you are patient because I will not be easy, and I don't mind if you're not too, as long as you'll keep waking me up for breakfast -- you know how I actually hate mornings -- but your pancakes are nice. You should make me pancakes more sometimes.

(Her letters would be so sappy. She would've insisted he burnt it after he's done reading it. He probably won't, sliding it in between the hundreds of sketchbooks Natasha'd gotten for him.)

They would give her books. She would've preferred Jane Austen, or Fitzgerald, or maybe re-reading _To Kill a Mockingbird_ for the fifth? Seventh times. (She remembered him picking up the book the first time from out of her book shelf, prompting her to explain the rigged part and the bent edges. She knew he'd guessed it's her favourite book without her admitting so, but she admitted it anyway. She'd also remembered stacking it up on the new shelf, along with an old radio's Bucky gotten for their new apartment together, and how fitting she thought it looked; how comforting.) But instead, she requested the books he'd read, once owned; she'd said the titles, of course, without ever mentioning his name -- they denied her the request anyway.

She'd tell him everything, she thought, holding the paper close to her chest when she'd finally decided on it.

And then, there's right now.

Sitting here with the dull clock ticking away by the wall. If she'd had a knife, or --better-- her gun, she would've shot it to die, let the pieces fall and frail over like fireworks against the floor. She used to be obsessed by time -- everything must be to date, the earlier the better -- but now she hated it. Hated that she's reminded every minute of her imprisonment here.

The man -- a doctor? Nurse? She could barely recall it; barely _care_ \-- starts.

"State your name, and date of birth."

 _Alright_ , she tells herself, more in his calming voice, directing her from not killing the kid right then and there. What a nice giant. Even if she's mostly imagining him now.

"Maria Hill. Born on April 19, 1984." She paused, cocks her head in a manner that have irked psychiatrists before insane (hah!) and stares so deadly that if the kid were an agent trainee, he would've pissed his pants on sight. Instead, he only looked bothered -- which was good as any, she guesses. "But you already knew that."

He doesn't answer.

"Do you know why you're here?"

She let a beat lingered, let the tension prickles on the atmosphere. "Because there are people out there who thinks I'm insane."

He blinks, looks something into her profile like it holds the answers to every problem in the world, yet still need a few codes to figure it out fully. He looks, she thinks without a doubt, downright pathetic. The situation doesn't amuse her. 

"What about you?" He manages, blinking even more rapidly now.

"What _about_ me?"

"Do you think you're insane?"

She frowns. "What kind of stupid fucking question is that?" She retorts without thinking twice, not even flinching at her mistake when he tries on desperately to hide the wince from the slip of her curse into her words. "No," she tells because she needs to, even possibly if she's been telling this for the umpteenth times. "I'm not-- _mentally_ _deranged_."

She hisses the words like it's poison, and in a way, it is.

"You're here because you are held accountable for-- for the killing of five people in Shanghai. Severely assaulting other two men as well."

"I was captured."

"You were tortured."

Maria gritted her teeth.

"They did experiments on you."

"They didn't succeed. I escaped. I saved my own skin."

"A lot of people are questioning your mental judgement. They-- we don't know what they've done to you. What could've possibly-- to what-- to what extent of the damage that has been done to your--"

" _Brain_?" She'd heard of this a lot of times, of course. "Tell your doctors I'm fine."

The man didn't say anything.

"And I didn't kill those men. Not..." She swallowed, "Not like that. There was an explosion. But I did take the two other men down. Those two are on me."

The man is writing something, bopping his head up and down in several nods. 

He gathered his files again, began a new page. Maria watched as he swiftly picked up on a pen, and she managed to pick up on a few more details. Left-handed. Burnt mark. Probably from spilled tea or any hot drink from the looks of it. That's new, so happened about a few days ago? This morning? There were marks, paper cuts probably. That's one old. Whatever he's been doing before, it's got a lot to do with paperworks. Writes quite smoothly, but letters are dangled and barely separated apart -- must've been doing these type of jobs for quite a while. Understandable enough, the writings, but written too short to be any official reports. Must've been personal notes. Wondered if he's the type to share it with other people-- other doctors.

Maria hums.

"Let's discuss of your relationship with Steve Rogers."

She stops humming, eyes turning a shade sharper. There's a hiss, she thinks, escapes from the corner of her mouth when she tries focusing her glare away, but the rage bubbles up. There's so much she could say on the subject, feels it burn on the pocket where she's stored the paper, but she's not sharing it with him. Not this man. 

"I ended things with him."

"And yet you've constantly requested to see him."

She refused to agree nor deny the statement.

"I've been told that your relationship with him ended days before you went off to Shanghai. Could you tell me why?"

"No."

This is stupid.

"Are you willing to tell me anything?"

That is easy. "No."

"What is the nature of your relationship with Steve Rogers?"

It takes all of Maria's will power not to skin this kid right out of his body, but focuses the exhale-inhale regime she's been through several times when she's grasping for reality while being both Marines and SHIELD. But of course, as she suspects, he repeats it again. And again. He writes something down, then says again:

"What, Maria, is the nature of your relationship with Steve Rogers?"

"We were involved." She tells him flatly, by the end, because maybe, she thinks, she can tell him some things. But only some. "Romantically," she swallows and-- _I love him_. "For two years now."

Two years, three months. But he doesn't need to know that.

He writes something down.

"Were you still in contact with him when you were in Shanghai?"

They would probably be, but-- "No."

"Why did things end up with the two of you?"

"I don't know. It was a fight." He doesn't want her out on the field anymore, not when Stark's resources are so limited. She'd told him that it's her life, it's her choice. They fight over it, in a huge way, and he just doesn't come home that night. She calls him to tell that it's over. He doesn't pick up the phone. She gets on a flight, dries up her face and ends everything. "I can't remember what it's about." _I miss him_. "But I ended it. It's not his fault."

"Were things serious between you two?"

"Is he watching this?"

By the dumbfounded, hesitant-like look on his face, she figures she must be right. Or, mostly. "One of the doctors told me once that I should write a journal. I told her to go to hell, and then she proposes that I could write a letter." She waits for a while, ponders over it and finally picks the letter out of her pocket, "I wrote a letter. I want you to give it to him."

"I--"

"You can't read it. Not until Steve does."

"But, I--"

"Hey, are you listening to me?" Moron. "You can't read it until he got his hands on this, do you understand me?"

"I, ah--"

"Am I," she repeats harshly, pulling up her former Deputy Director mask, " _Understood_."

"Y-yes, ma'am."

"Good." She gives him the letter, "I'll allow Barton to beat you if you read it first. Or Romanoff. So better don't betray my trust."

He swallows, but nods, scrambling to get his files together. 

"Do you have anymore questions?"

"W-well, there are severals--"

"Too bad I'm done for today." She stands up, "I'm tired."

For the first time, she doesn't have to put much of an argument.

She thinks again, as she's put away, about how much she'd wanted him to know; how much she'd wanted to write. But in reality, all that she ever manages to write was:

 

_Steve,_

_I'm sorry_.

 

She wonders if he truly gets the letter.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The bone under his shoulder was comforting, that much at least, as she could remember, was clear; and it aligned just nicely against her cheekbones that she'd only adjusted herself twice to get herself comfortable; slouched against him like a lazy slug as the night chipped the hours away, downing people all around them with familiar liquor. 

The event had been eventful -- just as any Stark's event had been expected to -- but it was tiring.

Or, at least it was, to her. She guessed he knew this the moment he'd seen her came to him because he'd already grinned up in the secret way he privately did whenever he was amused by her -- or at something she'd done -- and had immediately open up his one arm to catch her. And, as usual, she'd fallen to his side, where he'd half-dragged them to the couch and sat them down to which she now was taking an advantage of by latching onto his left side like he's her lifeline. (And in a way, he kind of was. Which was both surprisingly endearing and terrifying at the same time.)

He's not tired, that she could tell. Which was why, though pinned down to the couch solely by her weight, he's still carrying on a light conversation with Bruce, who's happily nursing himself with some pineapple soda (a thing Maria and the doctor shared -- weirdly sweet-sometimes-sour flavoured drinks -- that Steve always cringed his nose to whenever she literally dropped those cans onto their trolley while they're out grocery shopping), making pleasant humming noises whenever he's delighted by whatever Steve's got for an answer. Boys were so weird.

Steve was particularly enjoying the conversation, she knew, simply by the way his whole body rumbled whenever he snorted out laughing, or the way his right knee bopped up and down in anticipation every time Bruce gave an opinion. "Bruce has the most interesting of opinions, Maria!" He'd squawked to her once, all starstruck and probably waist-deep in love with the doctor (Steve could be such a fanboy); only nudging her once in a while with a bottled still water to keep her hydrated and awake.

Thirty minutes into the conversation, she's pressing a dollar on his left thigh and doodling what's supposed to be an ice cream a little dumbly when he'd feel his breath hot against the top of her forehead. She noted quickly that Bruce had gone -- probably to fetch another pineapple soda where Tony had kept a non-healthy amount of stash hidden under the bar, which, yes, made Steve scrunched up his nose disapprovingly whenever he was reminded of it -- and that the conversation had ended a few minutes prior. She didn't stop doodling, and she could feel his eyes burn against the single dollar note.

"The eiffel tower?" He hushed out, guessing innocently. (He always did this -- guessing out her drawing rather than just, "Maria, darling, you're not a very good artist. You should stop." When she confronted him about this, all he ever did was shrugged and say, "I don't believe in discouraging people, unless, of course they're up to something not good. I don't think you sketching a rather unique murdered teddy bear hardly counts as one." "It was a chicken, you idiot." He'd laughed, insisted on kissing her to apologise. She'd allow him.)

"It looks like a fucking underwear."

He chuckled -- young and low against her skin -- arm shrugged numbly around her body. "At least it looks like something."

She guessed he had a point, letting him take the pen from her and watched as he began doodling anew. He nudged the water bottle up to her again -- she took it without much of an argument -- just as he picked up the dollar note and tilted it sideways, finding a new quote she'd written in squirrelly loop-like letters in an attempt to copy Barton's horrible handwritings. (She didn't write it too often, but he'd always managed to catch her doing it nearly each time, which was kind of annoying. Because he'd ask questions about it --what is it? Where is it from?-- and well, good too, she guessed. It made her feel good, at least. Like he actually cares.)

He breathed, quoting back, "I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin." And she'd closed his eyes, listened. She liked his voice -- it's always soothing whenever it could be; at the end of the mission, at the beginning of the day, amidst the tiresome of a meeting, and especially when he's reading something back for her. The certainty of it, the way he's taking the words for the first time and held it against his tongue as fragile as holding shards of glasses in his fingers, like it's actually something special; Maria liked his voice. She liked his voice very much. "I will write novels to the scar of your nose. I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally... found you."

"There's more," she mumbled without waiting for him to ask questions, "But I don't think it'll fit on the dollar bill."

She waited a second. "It's uh, Clementine von Randics. She's a writer. She writes stuff... that I could often relate to, but not all." She only shrugged her shoulders instead, remembering when the last time she'd picked up the book before shoving it back on her shelves. "The quote kind of reminds me of you."

"Oh yeah?" He asked, and she didn't need to look up to identify the grin by the edge of his lips.

"I, uh--yes." She hesitated, cursing mentally that she ever did.  "I don't know. It describes how I feel. Maybe. It's stupid."

She snuggled her nose deeper into his shirt, just as he squeezed her body again. "It's not-- _stupid_." Wait for it, "Maria, you're not stupid."

Instead of snorting arguably, she hummed peacefully instead, digging her knuckles against his hard torso and whispering: "I know, Steve." He'd dropped a kiss atop of her head again, firmer this time and took the water bottle from her hand to drink it down himself. 

"Could you recite the whole quote fully for me, please?"

He gave her time -- he always gave her time -- to process his words, took it in and let herself be comfortable enough to say it aloud. Okay, she told herself silently, just as the one arm that's wrapped behind her tapped her arm. (This meant he'd wanted to hold her hand.) She hooked her hand into his fingers and let he held her; she sighed, and began. "I am not the first person you loved. You are not the first person I looked at with a mouthful of forevers."

The way the whole world around them seemingly paused and let them be was astonishing, and it sent chills down her bones. It used to frighten her, right to her very core--until she realised that a world without him then frightened her even more. "We have both known loss like the sharp edges of a knife. We have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin. Our love came unannounced in the middle of the night. Our love came when we’d given up on asking love to come. I think... that has to be part of its miracle." He squeezed her hand and thudded their foreheads together; he's smiling, she knew. "This is how we heal. I will kiss you like forgiveness. You will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms will bandage and we will press promises between us like flowers in a book.

"I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin. I will write novels to the scar of your nose. I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you." She closed her eyes at that, basking herself in how much truth ringing in the last particular line. She'd found him. Which was funny, because she never knew she was looking. And she wasn't-- looking, not really. But she liked him. More than she'd ever imagined. More than she could ever really... say. "And I will not be afraid of your scars."

She took another breath in and calmed herself against the way his chest fell under her. "I know sometimes it’s still hard to let me see you in all your cracked perfection, but please know: whether it’s the days you burn more brilliant than the sun or the nights you collapse into my lap your body broken into a thousand questions, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

"I will love you when you are a still day. I will love you when you are a hurricane." She'd ended it, closing her eyes at the sensation of their warmth pressed together. She stopped for a moment, and brushed her hair away. "It's... it's kind of ridiculous, isn't it?" She breathed out a silly chuckle, then felt him beckoned her to look at him. When she did, his blue eyes were bright. So bright, given enough intensity, it could envelop her whole being and she'd be too distracted to even notice. 

"That's very beautiful." He murmured, and she looked at his lips, her own fell flat.

"I thought so too."

He grinned then, a little. "Are you sad?"

"No, Rogers." She frowned up at him, felt an itch to pinch that teasing smirk off from his face. "I'm... very happy. Actually."

Content maybe, she thought of the more appropriate word, knowing how risky it was to just label herself as-- happy. Things like that tended to rip itself from her hold, and it would suck if it does. Pleasant, she thought again. He's always so pleasant to be with. And, well. Why does it matter, really. Either way, she felt pretty good. 

"But you're not smiling, Maria..." he teased again, bumping his nose against her cheek.

"That's because you're annoying." She batted him away weakly and let him laughed against the side of her face when he did. 

"I know," he'd murmured again, catching her lips with his own and deepening it. She made this absolutely horrid giddy-like noises at the back of her throat that she knew he'd always smiled at, and caught his jaw. Steve had a nice jaw. They argued once that his jaw was still nice even back in the 40s -- she's seen the picture -- and he'd been blushing to the afterlife when she mentioned that she didn't mind making out with him back during the war era. ("Hey, do you think you'd get an asthma, honey, if I went back and make out with you and tell you I'm your girlfriend in the future?" "WE'RE NOT DISCUSSING THIS!" He'd squawked over the dishes and she'd snickered.)

But that was then.

The moment passed, just like it should. Just as the world orders it to be. And Maria has accepted this. Has accepted this since the moment she could feel the relief of finally leaving the ghost of her father behind only to be knocked down again when she realised she's no better before than she was just _stranded_ there at the edge of Chicago, lost all the same. But she learned to adapt --one of her specialty really-- and moved on.

And just as she was when she was seventeen, that's how she'll be right now.

Moving the hell on.

She stares blankly at the new face now claiming the spot across from her --a new doctor, a new psychiatrist-- and makes up the usual analysation that she could find over him. Late 40s. The spectacles are old, worn, as he kept on adjusting it on his nose--probably due to the fact that the power of his lens might've grown. Birthmark under one ear, scars over the bald spot at the side of his head. Married, have children. Two--maybe three. There's a toddler in the house? Spilled milk on his collar, stained in an odd angle--so the possibility is there. Right handed, writes more than types. Read books often.

She pauses.

 _What a nerd_.

He's saying something --they all are, when she thinks about it-- probably something important. But not important enough that they still haven't tortured her further besides from keeping her here. (Just, _keeping_ her here. Like some sort of a caged animal.) So it must be something that she'd been asked daily, something she'd refused on answering again and again and again.

She wishes there's a window--one she could stare out on. Just so she could be distracted well enough to pretend that he isn't wholly there, whatever his name is. (She doesn't bother keeping up with names now. It doesn't faze her. Doesn't interest her. What for, anyway. It's not like they're going to have a tea party if she cares to remember them properly. Steve wouldn't have been proud of this newly developed character of her -- _Maria, that's not very nice, is it_ \-- but he's not here right now. He doesn't _know_.)

It still stings her. Grip right at her chest and lungs and organs to learn that the letter --however short it may be, or however long-- would be left without a reply. He isn't allowed to. She wonders if he's put up a fight for it. To just-- _talk_ to her. Even if it's in his scrawly hand writings that she always comments him on--wonders if he imagines she's commenting on it the moment he _is_ writing, and choking on a smile because that's what he would've done.

She wonders if he cries.

(Most probably not. Sometimes she imagines him gone completely. Imagines him stripping himself from everything that has to do with her; saying that he's _done_ , that this is it, that he doesn't care--never _does_ \-- and this kills her. She'll cough _so_ much --she doesn't cry, doesn't break-- so, so much, Steve, she'd think, that you would've been terrified. You would've hold me like you used to that one night when you found me under the sink inside of my old bathroom. I can't stop shaking. And you stayed and you held me and you told me that I was going to be okay. You said it repeatedly: you're going to be okay you're going to be okay you're going to be okay that somehow I lost meaning of all your words but I closed my eyes and let myself believe because I like your voice. I always have. Have I ever told you that? Steve, do you remember when--)

It's not fair.

It's not fair to keep her in here, separated from everything she knows, everything she's ever touched and desired to love and everything she absolutely _hated_. What were they trying to achieve?

To see her finally losing her goddamn mind?

Probably.

"--no match for Captain Rogers." She breaks her attention nastily at that, finally registering the final words of the sentences and let her swollen eyes focus on the man. "Do you have any comments on that?"

Her throat is sore. Dry. But she manages anyway, "What?"

The man sighs -- out of frustration, she could gather-- and starts again, picking on the file that's in between them. "I said there have been... concerns over your relationship with Captain Rogers. Besides from the Avengers, not everybody agreed both of you are suitable to in a relationship... with one another." He ends, eyes flicking sharply to maybe detect some sort of a response out of her. Maria held her fist from punching. She means, not _yet_ anyway. "Would you like to tell me what are your comments on that?"

The answer, as usual, is simple. "No."

"Maria."

"I said--" She grits her teeth. " _No_."

The man looks even more frustrated. Good. "Obviously this affects you."

"No shit." She splutters out, glaring heatedly.

"Maria--"

"Look, I'm not dumb. Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't hear _any_ of it? Every whisper, every rumour, every tiny little words, every fucking insane theory of how Ice Queen Hill managed to have America's golden hero right under her spell. Of course I do. Look at me. How could I not?"

The dumbfounded stare he gives back is almost expected, but Maria isn't done. She's so _scared_ , she realises, so scared to be in here for such a long time that all of these things --all of this bloody inner thoughts-- are getting into her mouth, spewing all over the place. 

And, she realises for the millionth times: he's not here.

God -- _God_ \-- that terrifies her the most.

(This is how she realises that she's attached herself to him more than she probably should-- that she couldn't even contain herself, hold herself the fuck up if he's not here. But that's the problem isn't it? She _knows_ he's here. He's probably here right now, just outside these goddamn walls and glasses. Watching her. And he's alive. Breathing. Well.)

(She misses his fingers. Misses his warmth. Misses his hand splays across her back when he's awake at ungodly hour of the morning and does nothing but stares at her the entire time. Misses his eyelashes when he's searching for her from across the room. Misses his lips that kisses and touches and twists when he's confused. Misses his voice when he tells and laughs and screams and shouts. She misses him. Good and bad. Whole and broken. Holy and scarred.)

"Don't I know that I don't deserve him? Don't I know that I'm the _last_ person he should ever be involved with? Of course I do. I know everything."

"You love him."

"Look at that man," she sneers. "And tell me _one_ thing that you don't like about him. I dare you."

"I see," the man adjusts his coat, then his glasses, which starts to annoy her. Again. More so than usual. "But you've broken things up with him."

She doesn't answer -- she doesn't think she needs to.

"You both were in an argument. Could you tell me what it was about?"

Maria pinches the bridge of her nose then, sniffling to the sobs that isn't there, and allows her mind to collect at its own kind pace. "I can't remember." She lies, knowing no answer could change her from where she is.

"Do you think he loves you back?"

 _Yes_.

"No." She looks down at her laps, at her shrinking fingers, her thoughts flipping from blond hair and blue eyes and letters that might've or might've not be sent. "I...," she manages, as though finally realising what she'd just said, and starts again, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" He echoes.

"I..." She swallows, clenches one fist. "I haven't seen him in a long time. The last time I did... we... we broke up."

She doesn't blame him if he _does_ ends up hating her.

At least it's something.

"But you love him?"

She's getting angry now. Well-- _angrier_. How could this man be this _stupid_. Does she _love_ Steve? How could she'd have stayed with him for two long years if she doesn't? How? Just-- _how?_  Do they need her to spell it out for them? Maria's clenched fist thudded against the top of the table, and the doctor flinched, a tinge of fear finally escaping his calm exterior.

"Does it matter? Would things change if I admit that, yes, I fucking love the guy? Would it? Do you need me to shout it? Scream at the top of my lungs? Cause nothing will be different. I will be here, stuck in this godforsaken place probably for the rest of my life because apparently, I'm _insane_ , and you're probing me to confess my undying love for a man you won't even allowed for me to _see_? You're fucking sick." She uttered, truly disgusted now. "But you want to hear me say it? I love him. I love him. I _love_ him. I love Steve Rogers so much, that the only thing's keeping me from choking you right here right now with my bare fingers are the thought that he'd probably won't approve of it."

They cuff her wrists after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the whole poem [here](http://puckering-gustin.tumblr.com/post/94519853305/i-am-not-the-first-person-you-loved-you-are-not).


End file.
